Strange Inheritance

Gemma's slim frame hunched tensely over the Honda motorbike as it jolted through the stormy January night. Behind her visor the dark violet of her eyes dilated involuntarily as lightning streaked across the sky to light up the signpost - Fenwick 4 miles. Her stomach tightened with fear as she swung onto the narrow loop road. The bike's wheels hissed along the wet surface; a flurry of hailstones bounced off the crash helmet that hid her chestnut curls.
Storms and disaster seemed to be inextricably linked ever since those seven years ago, just after she’d turned eighteen, when just such a storm orphaned her when her parents small rowing boat capsized on Lake Windermere. Then the devastation of loss was softened by Uncle Arthur's gruff but kindly support. Who’d have guessed that a crusty bachelor founder of a salmon canning business empire was capable of such unobtrusive help? Now Uncle was fighting for his life in the intensive care unit of the infirmary. She accelerated and let rip. It was a race against time - mercifully masking the all too scary thought that, once again, she could be left all alone.
As trees creaked ominously, Gemma’s black-gloved hands instinctively hardened their grip on the handlebars. She checked the wing mirror and frowned. That car tailgating her was the same 4x4 she'd seen parked in the lay-by at the crossroads. Her teeth began to chatter under the drenched black leather biking jacket, the dampness leaking through her tee shirt to her very bones. Suddenly she registered the intermittent on-off, on-off flash of the vehicle’s white headlights. Damn you, she muttered, bikes have every right to be on the road. She killed her speed and it followed suit silently, menacingly, signalling impatiently with its naked beam as it had done for more than half a mile.